


Bite

by Hambone



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Venom, Egg Laying, Giant Spiders, Implied Relationships, Mild Gore, Other, Oviposition, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shame, Unresolved Sexual Tension, drugged, uncomfortable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 18:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12174096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Shelob's attack goes differently and Sam helps draw out the poison she left.





	Bite

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this literally just because I can. Enjoy!

    Sam could hear him even before he saw him, though he made no vocalizations. His breathing had become so ragged and strained that every intake of air was a wheeze of terror, like the scream of a rabbit. Sam had to restrain himself from shouting, knowing it would do nothing good for them, and he clenched his jaw so hard the muscles in his head popped and ground. Holding Sting to his breast as a priest does a rosary, he rounded upon them.

    He could not find Frodo at first. Shelob’s great stinking mass hovered within the small space of cavern, enormous but almost impossible to fully see in the darkness. What he could see was hunched, as if the space crowded her, her bulbous abdomen curled downwards, shaking. Frodo’s breath was increasing in speed, high and torn, and it broke Sam’s heart.

    It didn’t take bravery to drive him forward – there was no steeling of courage now, only animal intensity, the absolute need to be at his Master’s side, regardless of danger. He crouched low, almost crawling, and approached the beast. The terrain was so broken as to be sharp at times, dragging into his clothing like claws trying to hold him back, but somehow he pulled free of them without sound. It felt like walking through water, and the ring of blood in his ears was the rush of the current. Frodo let out a quick, high moan, the sound of a person run through the heart, and Sam stumbled in his tracks.

    This was the cause of several things in succession: Sam himself let out a gasp, knees buckling, the leaving of his soul through his mouth at Frodo’s cry, and the phial Galadriel had given him clinked against the floor in his pocket, reminding him it was there in the first place. Simultaneously, as if she were expecting him, Shelob turned, quickly but awkwardly, her eyes, like great marble globes, catching in what little light there was. In that same instance Sam could see, though not clearly, a body on the floor beneath her, just a movement in the shadow, but it was enough.

    Sam had hidden the light before, in his sneaking, but now it weighed like lead against him and he ripped it free. It was intensely bright, blinding him momentarily as he held it before his own face, but the result was as desired. Shelob made a shrill, gurgling sound, as evil as it was pitiful, and Frodo himself let out another soft gasp. Sting leapt in his hand and he plunged it sloppily through one of Shelob’s eyes, exposing spongey flesh like the inside of a grape. The spider screeched, unnatural for a thing without a voice, surreal, and jumped back. He saw, then, something else that went against nature, some strange limb descending from her belly that still gripped Frodo, though he was not sure how. It detached almost the moment he took note of it, jerking his Master’s entire body from the ground as it did so, fluids spraying the rock walls.

    Giving no ground, Sam lunged again, waving the elvish blade before him and knowing the fear it gave her, now she’d felt its bite.

    “Let him go, _you filth_!”

    Her mandibles spread, oozing venom. Sam swung wildly at her, feeling the hair on his neck rise like a dog’s hackles. One of her legs swung at him, but the small space they were in aided Sam in his evasion and he thrust himself backwards to a fold in the rock. Melding with nature was instinct to a Hobbit, and though he had never needed it so dearly as he did now, Sam found it came easy. He bounded back out, Sting aloft, and cut across the same limb as it retreated. Shelob jittered to the side, not particularly injured but dearly angered. She reared upwards, and in doing so exposed the white flesh of her belly, the intersections of her legs to her thorax bulging like pustules.

    With true, stupid ferocity, Sam found himself leaping into the movement, and even before he realized his choice Sting caught her underside. It was no easy task to cut this ancient horror, even with elven steel, and the force of the blow was so great it pressed Sam down, aching in his arms. He grounded himself on his feet, oblivious to the pain, shoving himself into her with all his weight and being gratified by the scream she let out. Thick, reeking fluid bled from where he’d sliced, spilling onto his hair and face in fat globs, something that would have made him ill if he weren’t so filled with the passion of battle. Unable to fall anywhere but down, Shelob impaled herself further on the blade, pushing Sam to the ground.

    The light fell from where he had wrapped its small leather thong around his wrist, illuminating the whole room. In that moment Sam saw Frodo clearly. He was sprawled on the floor, his legs flat on the ground but his torso twisted to the side, as though he had been attempting to crawl away. His clothing was torn open, crudely, baring from his belly down to his thighs, and he was wet and odd looking, though Sam did not have time to discern why. With a great howl that shook the threads of cobweb lacing the cave walls, Shelob tore herself messily from Sting’s tooth, nearly breaking Sam’s arms in the process, and flew away to her tunnels.

    Sam lay, breathing, with his eyes squeezed shut. He knew he shouldn’t, and chastised himself the whole while, but the sudden silence was allowing the true horror of the situation to creep into his bones now and he needed a moment to steady his bones. It wasn’t until he head another small gasp from Frodo that he was able to rouse himself.

    “Mr. Frodo?” he said, rolling onto his stomach and attempting to get up through his shaking. Frodo’s response was another small sound, nothing more. Suddenly remembering with terrible clarity the sharp gasp his Master had made earlier, Sam rushed to his side.

    “It’s me, sir, it’s your Sam. Just your Sam.”

    In the light he could see Frodo’s eyes were wide open, staring without focus at the ceiling, but they jerked and shuddered in their sockets as if he were trying to track some invisible scene playing out before him. His small fingers twitched and clutched at air as Sam scooped him into his arms.

    “Sorry, me dear,” he said, flinching as Frodo made a deeply uncomfortable little moan, “but we can’t be stayin’ here. I don’t rightly know if she’s left us or not.”

    There had been no sound from whence she’d fled, but Sam was taking no chances. He hoisted himself up, stumbling a bit with Frodo’s weight, and did his best to retrace their steps to freedom.

    As it was, he failed at that completely, but somehow instead found himself at a different entrance to the outside world. Despite it being the cruel light of Mordor that met them, Sam was still momentarily struck with pure joy at seeing it, and it hurried his movements. His strength didn’t last long, however, and the adrenaline left him all at once and he collapsed onto his knees. They were on a flat rocky opening, somewhere, the black crags out mountain jutting up from the surface all around them. Here, though, there was nothing but open sky, and after so long in the claustrophobic depths of Shelob’s hell it was wonderful.

    He laid Frodo down on the earth and finally gave him a real inspection. It was not good. Frodo’s breeches were torn down, exposing him, and at any other time this might have pinked his cheeks something awful, but above his groin his stomach looked swollen, distended, the skin taught and shiny, and that was far more worrying. Frodo was flushed, but it looked sickly and awful on his gaunt face, like a fever, and he was still breathing hard. His hands wove through the air lazily, as if he were reaching for something but too weak to find it.

    “Sir,” said Sam, hushed and urgent, “Mr. Frodo, please speak, iffin ya can.”

    Frodo didn’t quite respond, but his head did shift until he was looking vaguely in Sam’s direction. He shifted again, spreading his legs slightly, but his breath had become less ragged, though still tight.

    “Mr. Frodo?”

    Sam crawled on his knees to where Frodo’s head was, though now he noticed, a little too late, that the cave floor had torn small scratches all over his legs, and bloodied the front of his breeches. He moved to touch Frodo in some way, not sure how to go about this, and Frodo’s hand shot out like a snake, grabbing the front of his weskit.

    “Sam?”

    “Yes, Mr. Frodo, it’s me!”

    He was so relieved to hear his Master’s voice that a few stray tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn’t shed them. Frodo needed strength right now, not an emotional Gamgee mess.

    “Sam, I’m so…” he wriggled slowly. Sam clutched the hand gripping him and with his other pulled Frodo’s head off the hard ground and into his soft lap.

    “She got ya, she did,” said Sam, nodding emphatically, “though I’m not rightly sure with what, sir, but ya had me so afraid you was-!” he broke off, unable to swallow the feeling that came with the next word and therefore not saying it at all. Frodo’s gaze was clearing, but slowly, very slowly. As it was not he had only changed from the look of a corpse to that of a live but heavily sedated hobbit. It was worrying how unfocused his pupils remained.

    “Sam,” said Frodo, his voice soft but strong, commanding attention even in his dazed state, “she put something – oh, it was awful, that wretched thing – she put something…”

    His grip slackened and his eyes closed hard, face morphing into a grimace. Frodo’s entire body bowed upwards for a moment, stiff with something Sam could only assume was pain, before slackening again.

    “Oh, me dear,” Sam stroked his hair almost frantically, “tell me what you need, Mr. Frodo, please tell your Sam so he can remedy it, if he can.”

    Frodo looked at him oddly. It wasn’t Frodo’s intention to be odd, but there was both a sort of sweetness to it and a kind of disgust at the same time, and Sam wasn’t sure who or what it was directed at.

    “Sam,” Frodo began again, this time speaking slower, more clearly, “that – that thing put something inside of me.”

    Sam was not sure what to make of this. His eyes again caught the small swell of Frodo’s exposed belly.

    “A poison, sir?” he said, reaching out gingerly to the affected area, “did she sting ya again, the wicked thing?”

    The flesh of Frodo’s stomach was firm and taught, not soft and bloated with fluid like he had assumed. As soon as he touched it, Frodo’s head snapped back and he gasped softly.

    “Sam!”

    “I’m so sorry!” cried Sam, taking his hand back immediately, but Frodo was already taken by whatever demons had gripped him.

    “No, Sam, please,” he breathed, “you have to help me get it out!”

    Frodo did not seem to be in pain at this point, though the feeling couldn’t be far from it, judging by his straining muscles. Sam tried to think back to all his times back home learning what passed as Hobbit first aid from his Gaffer. He’d used remedies to cure spider bites before, sure, but nothing like this, and not here, in this dry and barren land, where there were no leaves and no waters, nothing with which to draw out the poison.

    “Sam.”

    In his time panicking, Frodo’s hand had found his again, and drew it back to his stomach. “Please, Sam, I feel so queer.”

    “I’m here,” said Sam, not knowing what else to say. He combed his chubby fingers through Frodo’s hair again, slick with sweat. Frodo’s toes were curling, and his head lolled in Sam’s lap, eyes fluttering closed. His flush was growing stronger, but now it seemed a mite healthier, almost a glow, and a small, unreasonable part of Sam was suddenly struck by how beautiful he looked, even now, covered in filth and pain and the dead light cast off by the mountains.

    “Help me, Sam,” Frodo moaned. His voice was stronger than before, but still soft, like he was commanding Sam to assist him in hanging a picture straight back at Bag End. It was only the subtle raw edges to his words that reminded him of his fears.

    “How, Mr. Frodo?” Sam spoke with words that quivered with his unshed tears. Frodo couldn’t respond, but he nuzzled his face briefly into Sam’s soft stomach, and his body bowed again with a small breathy sigh.

    “Oh,” said Frodo, and then Sam heard a wet sound from between his legs. There were not many things that could have caused that noise, and none of them were good, and for a half second Sam was paralyzed with fear and shame, that perhaps Frodo was really dying, that he had let himself go.

    “Mr. Frodo?”

    “Sam, it’s-!”

    Frodo’s muscles tensed hard, to the point where the tendons in his neck were clearly visible. Sam’s panic grew.

    “Oh, oh, oh!”

    Fretting, Sam finally, painfully, brought himself to look between his Master’s legs, something he had been stoically avoiding this entire time. His feelings, whatever muddle they may be, were nothing short of blasphemously inappropriate for a time like this, and in his horror left totally forgotten. Now, though as he drew his eyes down over the crest of Frodo’s stomach, he saw, disturbingly, that Frodo was aroused. He was not at a state of total hardness yet, but his small cock was pinking, stiffening just perceptibly from his curled pubic hair. The sight was so out of place in the moment that it stunned Sam into inactivity, simply staring, but then Frodo hissed out another odd breath of air and his thighs twitched apart, the movement accompanied by a small pulse of his cock, and Sam remembered their situation, what little of it he understood.

    “Sam, oh Sam,” Frodo pushed his head harder into his companion’s soft belly, “help me.”

    “Um.”

    There was something between Frodo’s legs, something that didn’t belong there. White and wet, a smooth sphere was somewhat visible behind his Master’s sex. Any words he was planning to say dried up in his mouth, until his tongue felt swollen, dehydrated. He tried to swallow and found himself quite unable to. Frodo’s hips shifted back and forth, rocking in what was now becoming apparent as a genuine sexual madness of some kind. Trapped in his shock and horror, Sam watched as the white globe shuddered and pulsed between Frodo’s legs before, with a wet and awful noise, it fell free of him and landed on the black earth with a sickly plop.

    As this occurred Frodo had gotten harder, each throb of the thing he pushed out of him echoing in his cock visibly, and now he was rather proudly erect. His face was blinded by Sam’s stomach, and it felt wet, though more with saliva than tears. Sam remembered the appendage that hung from Shelob’s abdomen, the liquid it leaked, and felt sick.

    “There, sir,” Sam whispered, shakily petting Frodo, “it’s out, see, you’re free of it.”

    But Frodo did not hear him, or did not react, pushing his hips up again and again, mouth falling open against Sam’s tunic with soundless cries. It was wrong how calm Frodo seemed, despite this, and it was wrong how his cock bobbed against his bloated belly, and it was horribly, terribly wrong how Sam felt himself reacting to it in kind, stiffening in his trousers, so close to where Frodo mouthed his clothing, sick with whatever poison the she-devil had implanted in him. How could he feel sexual fulfilment from watching his Master suffer? How could he call himself a good hobbit when he found pleasure in his dearest friend’s suffering? The tears did spill then, and he shook himself, blinking them from his eyes angrily. He didn’t deserve pity even from his own self when he was acting so wretchedly.

    “Sam,” Frodo called to him again, gentle and dreamlike. Sam could see, just barely through his traitorous eyes, another white mass pushing out of his Master. The hand Frodo held captive, long forgotten to him, was suddenly being pulled at, down across Frodo’s quivering gut, lower, towards his cock. When he realized this Sam jerked away as though it were a blade he was urged to grip.

    “Sir,” he begged, licking his lips to wet them, “ya don’t know what you’re doing.”

    “Oh, please, you must help me. There’s so much.”

    His muscles stiffened rhythmically along his whole body, a pulse like the perfect drum of a centipede’s legs.

    Being frozen with fear was not helping. Tightening his whole face, Sam breathed, in and out, and would have clenched his fists were they not occupied. _Samwise Gamgee,_ he thought, _you are a beast if you do not help him now. Sittin’ here wallowin’ in yer own failure is no way to act!_

    Though it brought him fortitude, his personal pep talk did little to clear his head. He sat back some, pulling Frodo with him, until he was half upright against Sam’s chest. Frodo hadn’t reacted much, his head swaying down over the buckle of the Elvin cloak still wrapped over his shoulders, panting. The gravity might help. Sam had seen his mother’s friend once, heavy with child, walk round and round their smial in the days before birthing. She’d claimed the sway of her squat hips rocked the babes into awareness and quickened their progress to the natural conclusion of pregnancy. His Master was not exactly pregnant, though the idea again gave Sam an aberrant thrill in his groin, but the principle must be rather the same. Even as he thought this, Frodo let out another sigh, and the second sphere dropped flat before them, slick with whatever ooze Shelob had used to ease them inside him in the first place.

    It was vile to consider, but Sam had to face the obvious and know these were eggs of some kind. This was awful for two reasons; initially because it was disgusting to think that Shelob had violated Frodo in a genuine, knowing manner, attempting to harm him intimately at best, or to use him as a living womb for her young at worst. The second and more urgently foul reason was that he, as a gardener, knew spiders. Some were harmless, some a nuisance but not to the plants. Some, however, laid their clutch into a live thing, as she had, and waited, and when the time came for the young to emerge they used the still warm and animated body around them as sustenance, devouring from the inside out, the body that gave them life then becoming their first meal. It only made sense to him that something as inherently wicked as she would reproduce in such a manner, only ever causing pain and death.

    That meant that not only was it important to get the eggs out for Frodo’s comfort, but also possibly to save his life. The hard part was figuring out how. Several obscene thoughts crossed his mind, unbidden, and Sam was immediately ashamed again. Despite the fact that Frodo was not afraid, not openly at least, he was still under the influence of something mighty strong and dark. To take advantage of him at a time like this was unthinkable. Still, his cock pressed hard against the front of his breeches as Frodo groaned and turned in his arms, spellbound. _Lor get me through this._

    Sam anchored one arm underneath Frodo’s armpit on his left side, hiking him a bit higher, and with his other pressed flat to Frodo’s stomach. He could feel a shifting inside him, like marbles in a child’s bag. He pressed down.

    “Oh, oh!”

    Frodo’s hips bucked. Wincing, Sam stayed firm.

    “I-I’m not hurtin’ ya, am I, Mr. Frodo?”

    “No, Sam, not there,” said Frodo, frustrated, his eyes squeezed shut, “please, I’m burning.”

    “M’sure you are,” said Sam, having to avert his eyes as beads of fluid twinkled at the tip of his Master’s now heavily flushed cock. “It ain’t right, though, an I won’t be party to shamin’ you.”

    “Sam,” Frodo almost whined, “Oh, have mercy on me!”

_On us both,_ thought Sam, jaw set so tight his teeth squeaked together.

    “I’m doin’ what I can, sir.”

    Slowly he began to massage Frodo, his hand making firm, wide circles across his distension. All the while Frodo turned and jerked in his lap, moaning as if tortured. Sam throbbed in his pants, sympathetic and unhappy. In any other situation, any other corner of the world, this would have been something of a dream. Frodo was beautiful, scholarly, high above Sam in every way. There were days even now in this hell that he wondered how he had been born so lucky as to share his time with someone like his Master, for truly knowing him was a blessing.

    With another hot squelch, an egg fell by the others. Perhaps he was imagining it, but there seemed to be a definite lessening of the pressure beneath his palm as the evacuation made space for the rest of the clutch, and it spurred him on.

    “Oh, Sam, I can’t!” Frodo’s hand grasped for his own chest, but Sam caught it up and held it tightly. There was no need for the spy he wore around his neck to betray them now, no need in any sense of the word.

    “Come now, Mr. Frodo,” cooed Sam, uncomfortable with how patronizing he felt, “you’re doin’ such a good job.”

    Grunting wetly, Frodo bent towards him, nudging Sam’s thigh towards his leaking cock.

    “Sam, Sam, its close.”

    The words sent a heady rush through Sam, something he hadn’t felt since his days as a budding tween first noticing the way a pair of breasts filled out a low fitting blouse, or the folds of flesh that pinched out above the lasses skirts when they danced to one of the Brandybuck boy’s randy tunes when everyone was three sheets to the wind. It almost bowled him over, so strong was the rush of blood from his brain to below. He kept his gaze fastened to one of the craggy spires that circles the area, determined to keep what bit of purity this violation had not stripped of his Master secure.

    “It’s alright, sir, it’s alright,” he said, and Frodo said, “ah, ah!” and came, a graceful arc of cum jetting brightly against his muddy skin. Sam felt it more than saw it, because he was still politely looking away, but it splashed against his hand, warm and thick, and he felt like this was the final test of this journey that would kill him once and for all. He would not look. He would not force any more shame onto his Master than he would already feel when he regained his rightful senses.

    “Oh,” said Frodo again, an uneasy sigh, and his body was still clenching and unclenching, still working to rid itself naturally of the unnatural invasion inside him. At this point he was hardly coherent, but it was almost pleasant seeming, like the daze one entered after too many good tales from Gandalf in the evening with a full pipe. He didn’t dare look into his Master’s eyes, knowing he’d be lost if he did.

    “S’alright, Mr. Frodo, yer almost done with it now.”

    He wasn’t. Sam wasn’t sure how she’d accomplished so much in so little time, but they sat there on the stone floor while Frodo birthed egg after egg for what felt like hours. Sam had sweat through the front of his tunic and it only added to how dirty he felt. There was no water here, no water in Mordor that wasn’t tainted with death it seemed, no way to cleanse either of them after this but to finish their task and be done with it. Somehow Frodo persevered, though his body shook and by the end of it he was almost weeping with exhaustion. He was so strong, Sam thought, to bear it. He wished he was strong enough not to be dreaming, wishing that he could reach down and relieve Frodo of some of the labor himself, but he caught the urge every time his Master breathed out another painfully tempting moan, and throttled it and hated himself for it.

    Then it was over, or at least the brunt of it was. He refused to allow himself to believe it until Frodo had been still for several minutes, breathing so hard he could barely hear anything else. As he turned, he caught Frodo’s eye, and, reeling at the idea that he had been being watched, froze. For a moment he would believe anything, that any horror was possible in this dreadful place they had come to, and that Frodo knew as intimately as his own thought how Sam had been struggling with himself, with his desire that seemed so uncharacteristically sadistic in the context.

    “Sir?”

    But Frodo’s eyes were unfocused and blind. He was not quite conscious to the world, and Sam’s mind remained private. With some effort he pulled them both up, and his legs quaked so hard he thought he would simply collapse at first. Frodo made no sound, no indication he’d even noticed, until Sam had taken them as far as he could from the mess and slumped down again, carefully arranging his Master’s body to be comfortably prostrate on a reasonably flat part of the clearing.

    “I don’t have much to clean this with, Mr. Frodo,” he muttered, attempting to redress himself as the servant he was, “but I’ll do me best.”

    It would be a shame to dirty any of their elven cloth with the evil ooze, but Frodo’s health came first, and having nothing but the clothes on his body elsewise, Sam did what he could to wipe Frodo down with his cloak. The heat so close to the mountain’s mouth was such that he didn’t much need it anyways, and he couldn’t imagine that any orc would be foolish enough to search for them here, not now. He prayed this was so.

    Frodo was also noticeably hard again. Sam worked around the issue as best he could, but it was not an easy task to wipe down his Master’s inner thighs and ignore what was between them. Frodo sighed and squirmed lightly every other stroke of the cloth, widening his legs. Sam shut them resolutely.

    “You’d be regrettin’ it, Mr. Frodo.”

    He tried to sound stern, both for himself and for his likely unhearing Master.

    “Ah, oh.”

    Aside from the sounds, he almost looked like he was truly asleep now, his muscles slack and soft after so long spent straining. Sam couldn’t blame him, and was relieved simultaneously. He wasn’t sure how he would face Frodo after this. To have seen someone in such a shameful state was not something you could come back from, even if Sam still believed the sun rose and set for Frodo alone.

    “Sam,” whispered Frodo, canting his hips, and Sam almost cried. It was not simply his own distaste of the situation, or his pity for how Frodo himself must feel, but the fact that this most secret of all feelings inside him was the thing being teased now, mocked, as if by genuine intent. The ring, though, no matter how evil, could not have done this. It couldn’t have, he had to believe this, because otherwise he was sure it would drive him mad to know it still lay so close to his Master’s breast.

    He pulled the tattered but still serviceable remains of Frodo’s breeches back up to cover him, and straightened his weskit, or what was left of it, and his blouse, and then he sat at Frodo’s side and looked out onto the horizon stiffly, teeth clenched, while his Master still tossed and turned a while more, looking for something he wouldn’t give. After a while he quieted, and sleep really did seem to take him finally. Sam wanted nothing but for him to awaken as himself again, fresh and clean and alive, and to not know what had happened. He wanted to leave this place, soon, before it cut them both down.


End file.
